The List of Rules

Once upon a time, a very wise and loving father looked upon how his children were behaving, and saw that something must be done to teach them the right way to live. They were unruly and selfish, constantly arguing with each other, filled with greed and violence. This was not how their father wanted them to live.

He called them together to discuss the matter. He asked why it was they behaved in a way that was contrary to not just what their father had taught them, but to common sense as well. He asked what must he do, as their father, to make sure they behaved as they should.

They replied that they were no longer children, that they could make up their own minds about how to behave, as long as their father made it clear what was expected of them.

“Show us what you consider the difference between good and evil. Make up a list of rules, and we will follow them, to the very best of our ability.”

Their father looked at them, a subtle smile playing on his lips. They asked for the very thing he had been planning on doing. Everything was going according to his plan. The father spoke, “Very well. I have just such a list right here. I will give it to you, along with promises to reward you greatly for abiding by the list. Be aware, though, that there is also punishment and dire consequences for breaking the rules. If this is truly what you want, do you swear you will abide by the list?”

He handed out the list, and the children gathered to look at it. There was some grumbling about a few of the rules, yet when they looked at the list of rewards, and how so many of the rules looked so easy to follow, they eventually nodded their heads in agreement.

“We will follow these rules. We expect the just rewards for doing so...”

“And the just punishment for failure?” their father interrupted them?

“Yes, of course. But we shall not fail. We are quite able to keep these rules,” replied the eldest of the children, a hint of indignation in his voice.

The father gazed at them sternly, yet lovingly as well,”Very well then. From this day forward that list will govern nearly everything in your lives. You will start following it immediately."

He watched as his children hurriedly began discussing how to comply with the list of rules, and took the first steps toward what they thought would be a life of reward for their discipline and work.

It soon became apparent that some of the rules were harder to keep than they thought. How could they not work on a certain day, yet still do the things needed to go about their lives? It turned out that wasn't too hard to resolve: they simply did extra work the other days to get ready for the day they couldn't work. However, many of the other rules meant giving up certain things they enjoyed, which was of course a difficult thing for some of them to do. They soon realized they didn't really miss those things that much-some of them were harmful habits anyway-but especially because their father was generous with his rewards when he saw them comply with the list.

What was not so easy was obeying rules when their basic human nature, their emotions and desires, ran counter to the rules. It was hard not to be jealous of a sibling who had more toys. If someone was mean to me, many of them thought, how can I be expected to treat him nice in return? Eventually they saw how hard it was to keep some of the rules, but rather than admit it, they pretended they were still keeping them. Sometimes, doing this meant they had to change the meaning of the rules to make it look like they were keeping them. In many cases, they resorted to bragging about the rules they did keep as though that made up for breaking other rules.

All the while, their father watched their behavior in near silence. Occasionally he would let them know he was not pleased with how they behaved. When this happened, some of his children would make an effort to correct their behavior out of genuine remorse. Others would pretend to be sorry, but keep on breaking the rules in secret. A few of the children simply said they were sick and tired of the rules and would do what they wanted.

After many years, it became obvious that the list of rules caused as many problems as it solved. This wasn't because of the rules, but because the children simply were not able to keep all of them as they had promised. As it is in life, words written on paper look much easier to follow than is the actual case. The rules can be objective, unchanging words on paper, but people are naturally subjective, and as changeable as the weather.

There were as many ways of dealing with the list as there were children. Some kept nearly all the rules faithfully. Some chose only those rules which were easy to keep. Some pretended to keep rules, but didn't. Some tried as best they could, and were very sorry when they broke a rule. Others simply said they would no longer follow the list.

Their father observed all of this in knowing silence. Even though some of his children thought they were fooling him (because they thought the were fooling their siblings), he knew what each of them was doing. Finally he called them together to discuss the list of rules.

“So, you have had this list for many years now,” said the father, “and I have been watching you carefully the whole time. Some of you do very well, considering the great number of rules on the list, and others of you shame yourselves with your selfishness and contentiousness.”

At this, the children became disquieted. They started grumbling among themselves about who their father meant was doing well and who was being selfish.

Their father continued,” and yet, no matter how well or badly any of you have done, not a single one of you has succeeded in following the list as you promised. As a result, none of you qualify for the ultimate reward.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as the children looked at each other in disbelief. Then all at once the cacophonous protest erupted. The children shouted at each other, at their father, at no one in particular. Finally two of the children stepped forward, convincing the others to let them speak.

The first child stepped forward and got right in his father's face, “This list is impossible to keep. We may just be your children, but we deserve better. We deserve something fair. You set us up, giving us this ridiculous list, promising a reward, and now saying we don't get it because we didn't keep all the rules?”

“How were we ever supposed to keep this list? We know you can keep it, of course. We may be your children, but we aren't you. It's unfair to expect us to keep this list as you would.”

“You claim you love us, but it's obvious to us that's not the case. You gave us this list, knowing that as we tried to follow the rules, some of us would act differently than others. Instead of the rules making our lives as a family easier, it resulted in so many arguments about the rules, how to keep them, who was or wasn't obeying, that we are worse off than before. But you knew that would happen! You knew it would happen but gave us the list anyway. How cruel! No real father would do such a thing. We demand you tear up the list, and give us our rewards anyway, because this whole thing was unfair.”

For a breathless moment, the outspoken child stood before his father, ragged breaths coming forth as he expected some sort of reaction: an angry retort, perhaps even a slap to the face. Instead the father gently leaned forward, laid his hands on his child's shoulders, and kissed him on the forehead.

The child, now torn between an even greater anger toward his father (for not acting as the child had expected) and bewilderment over his response, moved back toward the rest of the children in uncertain steps, his eyes never leaving his father's unfathomable gaze.

The second child spoke humbly, his eyes fixed on the floor.,”Father, some of us have tried our very best. We really have. We thought we could follow all the rules, but we found out we couldn't. We are too flawed, to apt to make mistakes despite our better judgment. Even the best of us can act in selfishness. That list is... impossible to keep, as my brother said. But the fault lies with us for not realizing this from the start, and spending all these years trying to keep it instead of asking you how we could deal with such an impossible list. Forgive us for being so arrogant.”

Finally he looked up into his father's eyes. He lunged forward onto his knees and grasped his father's hand in his own, “Please, father, please tear up the list. We aren't truly able to keep it correctly, because we don't know how... we aren't you. No matter how highly we think of ourselves, we don't really know your thoughts, your heart, your nature. We lack something inside of us... each of us is lacking... that's why we fail...”

The father gently pulled his child off his knees and wrapped him in a loving embrace, a smile on his face. He took a few moments to whisper something in the child's ear. The child perked up greatly at the words he was hearing, and soon a joyful grin replaced the tear streaked expression he had worn moments before.

The father stopped speaking to the child, who reluctantly released their embrace. With a nod, the father motioned for him to return to his siblings.

The father stood and held the list up before him. He loudly declared, “I will not tear up this list. It reflects the way things are meant to be, because it comes from my very heart. My own spirit is the spirit behind the list. I would sooner kill myself than dismiss these rules”

Again a mixed reaction from the children, ranging from anger and indignation to wonderment to bitter resignation of the inevitable failure the list imposed upon them.

The father lowered his voice to a whisper that cut through his children's muttering as clearly as if he had been speaking in a silent room, “I have a much better solution. I agree the list is impossible to keep fully. That was my intent from the beginning...”

More indignant muttering.

“That being the case, “the father continued, unfazed by the growing discontent among some of his children, “I offer the only solution what will work. I offer myself, my spirit.”

With that, the father took a deep breath, an impossibly long and enormous inhalation that seemed to draw all of time and space into himself, leaving nothing but a spot of light in which he stood before his family. He then exhaled, his breath like gentle fire washing out over his children like the tide flowing in to erase footprints in the sand and remove detritus. Some of the children closed their eyes and inhaled the breath of their father. Others obstinately shut their mouths and refused to breathe.

Yet none could deny that the fire had washed over them, and that as a result, the entire universe had changed.

The father looked out over his children, loving the most rebellious and selfish as much as he loved the most loving and faithful. “That is all I have to say for now.” With that, the father turned and posted the list of rules on the wall, where his children would always see it. The children looked at each other, with mutterings both benign and hateful, and eventually went their various ways. 

All but one.

The lone child meekly approached her father, who had sat back down in his chair and was idly humming to himself, eyes closed. “Father?” the child asked. The father opened his eyes and smiled.

“I knew you would be the one” he said happily, and held out his arms for his child to approach. He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her as she leaned her head on his shoulder. She listened to his humming for a few moments, and found it filled her with peace and joy. After a few blissful moments listening to her father's song, she spoke:

“This was the plan all along, wasn't it? I mean, from the moment you gave us life, you knew what we would be like. You knew that no matter what, if you didn't do something drastic, we would become nothing more than selfish, unmitigated brats. At least compared to you, that is. I mean, we can be really good when we want to, but it's not quite enough to be that sort of good, is it? That's because that sort of good is only on the outside, only temporary, and often only because it means we get a reward for being that sort of good.”

She paused for a moment, expecting her father to say something, but he simply continued to hum the quiet song, his head leaning against hers, his eyes closed.

“I guess what I'm saying is there are two sorts of good we can be. There's 'list of rules' good, where we can point to one or a bunch of the rules and say See, I'm being good because I keep these rules. But then we forget about the rules we don't keep, as though it doesn't matter when we are bad. And the fact is that for a lot of us, the most important rules are the ones we break, because they're the hardest for us to keep. Like loving our enemies or not fighting over stuff, or being more willing to give to someone than get something from them.”

“Then we make a big deal out of keeping the easy rules cuz we hope that will keep people from noticing that we're breaking the ones that matter the most. And that's why you said we had to keep all the rules to earn the reward, cuz if we could say that we kept some of the rules, but not all of them, and that we deserved the reward as a result, we would miss the whole point of what the reward is.”

At that the father stopped humming and opened his eyes to regard his child.

“Cuz, well, we spent all this time trying to keep the list of rules, thinking the reward would be some great thing each of us wanted, like a lot of money or a big house or to be better looking or to be in charge. But those sorts of things are only the rewards you get by breaking some of the rules. I mean, anyone can get that stuff on their own, really, often just by being selfish enough to make themselves more important than anyone else.”

The child looked up into her father's eyes.

“The list, the list is meant for us to realize that the only way we can really keep it is if we have you inside of us, if we share your spirit, like you gave us just now. That's how we keep the list: not by following each and every rule, but by letting your spirit guide us into becoming like you, and acting as you would act. That way we know more than just what's on the list. We know why there is a list to begin with. And when we know that, when we know that the list is really all about love, then we can keep the parts we are best able to keep, each of us, personally, and not fret over the parts we don't keep because we realize it's not our fault if we make mistakes for being imperfect. It's only our fault if we know we could do something but refuse to do it.”

“So the reward is not something we get from keeping the list. It is the list, or more so, it's your spirit inside of us, gently making it so we can let the you inside of us keep the parts of the list it's important for each of us to keep, ourselves, without fretting whether someone else is keeping the list the same way. The reward is knowing why, and knowing you, and moments just like this.” Then she closed her eyes and hugged her father ever so tightly.

The father smiled, closed his eyes, and resumed humming his sweet, soft song.

The Beginner's Guide to Becoming a Modern American Churchian

How to be a Modern American Churchian:

The key is to learn to dismiss important aspects of Scriptural teaching and Christ's example combined with semantic gerrymandering. If all else fails, keep relying on the fragments of Scripture which support your point, even if the verse(s) is taken completely out of context and your interpretation conflicts with other verses in the Bible. Follow these guidelines and you will be able to proudly proclaim yourself a Christian without any of the messy business of acting as Christ would have you act.

Examples:

The Bible says to help the poor, feed the hungry etc. (Deut. 15:7-11, Lev. 25:35, Prov. 19:17, Matt. 5:42, Matt. 25:34-46 and dozens more)

Churchian Solution: claim the poor and needy are that way because they are lazy and entitlement minded. Assume they are not only unemployed, but aren't interested in working. That way you can quote 2 Thessalonians 3:10 about how those who don't work don't eat. It's even easier if you follow Word of Faith doctrine, which implies that poverty is a consequence of sin and lack of faith.

Don't forget to partially quote Mark 14:7, about always having the poor, being blissfully ignorant that Jesus was referring to Deuteronomy 15:11, which is a commandment to always provide for the poor of the land.

The Bible warns against greed and the seeking of wealth (Prov. 28:25, Lk 12:15, 1 Tim. 6:9-10).

Churchian Solution: Related to the above, cite verses that talk about how God wants His people to prosper, how hard work earns a reward, and how ultimately you will use your wealth to further the Gospel by tithing.

The Bible warns against exploiting workers.(Deut. 24:14-14,Jer. 22:13, Mal. 3:5, Col.4:1)

Churchian Solution; Using the two Solutions above, claim that workers who complain about wages are actually lazy, entitlement-minded sluggards who barely deserve what they are paid. Point out how profits made at the expense of exploited workers are used to bless people. Make obscure references to Old Testament scriptures that support the idea that God favors Capitalism. The ringer is the Parable of the Workers (Matt. 20:1-34) which can, with the right twist, be used to justify never paying an employee more than what the boss thinks he's worth, and never giving any raises.

The Bible says to love and do good to your enemies. (Matt. 5:44, Luke 6:27-36, Romans 12:19-21).

Churchian Solution; This can be done in two different ways, or a combination of the two. First, redefine love, generally exemplified by the statement “love the sinner, hate the sin” so that any animosity you display toward your enemy is redefined as actually being love. Second method is to cite verses which talk about God pouring out His wrath on His enemies and the enemies of His people. In other words, favor the Old Testament over the New to handle this one. Be sure to declare those you hate to be “enemies of Christ”, “Accusers of the brethren” and “heretics” because somewhere in the Bible there are verses which exempt those people from the “love and do good to your enemies” verses, right?

The Bible says to love your neighbor as yourself. (Mark 12:31, Matt. 22:39).

Churchian Solution: This one is very easy: simply use a definition of “neighbor” which limits it to people who are like you.

The Bible says to welcome aliens and strangers. (Deut. 10:18, Lev.19:33, Exodus 23:9, Matt. 25:35, Hebrews 13:2)

Churchian Solution: It takes a bit of effort to become stiff-necked enough to proclaim that the laws of man supersede the laws of God, but that is the best way to handle this one. Point out that illegal immigrants are technically criminals, even if they are children, as a way of saying that their guilt according to man-made law abrogates any need for you to apply the Word of God.

The Bible says to be humble/avoid self-righteousness (Luke 18:9-14, Philippians 2:3-11, James 4:6) to seek peace, (Mt. 5:9, Romans 12:18) and to never try to force your will upon others (1 Cor. 13:4-5) and don't trust in man made methods to achieve spiritual goals (Ps. 118:8; 146:3, Jer. 17:5-6).

Churchian Solution: Someone's got to defend the faith and make sure people behave righteously, right? Why not use whatever means are necessary, including political activism, because the most important thing is to make society as comfortable as possible for Churchians maintain the status quo of using Jesus Christ to justify all sorts of selfish behavior.

This is just the basics. As you learn to apply these principles, you will eventually find ways to use Scripture and modern American doctrine to oppose all sorts of things ranging from gun control to teaching basic science in school.

The Chest Part 3

Time passed.

The years the Man struggled with what to do with the Chest came to outnumber the years he'd spent struggling with what to do with the Burden. His daily routine had shifted. For many years, he would wake up in the morning and study the Burden in the mirror, and then do the same before going to bed. Now he rarely took the time to look at the Burden. Instead, he spent hours a day studying the chest and contemplating what to do with it.

Standing at the mantle, idly rubbing the brass latch of the Chest with his thumb, had become his morning and evening habit. Even after years of touching and rubbing the Chest, it bore no evidence of his contact. The polished wood and brass still gleamed as clearly and brightly as the day he'd received the mysterious box. The only evidence of the uncounted hours of contact was a callus on the side of his thumb from rubbing, rubbing, rubbing...

One time the Man had actually gotten up the courage to throw the Chest into the fire. His family had been visiting, and a debate over the Chest, and why it had remained unopened for such a long time, resulted in some hard words and hurt feelings. His family had left with a sense of alienation and heartbreak over the Man's intransigent regarding the Chest (Da, just OPEN the damn thing. There can't be anything inside that'll do you more harm than obsessing about it every day!) Gripped with guilt over having let the Chest cause such a breech among his relations, he snatched up the box and tossed it into the fire.

He stood there watching the flames lick at the edges of the dreaded box for nearly ten seconds before a feeling of icy panic erupted within his gut. He desperately grabbed up the tongs and pulled the Chest out and gently, reverently it back on the mantle.

He examined the Chest closely and saw that it was completely undamaged. Gingerly he reached out and touched it, expecting at least the brass fittings and latch to have been heated up, but was surprised to find them as icy cool as ever, and the wood no warmer than the familiar, living temperature he knew so well.

As he stood there rubbing the Chest in his usual, unconscious way, he found himself muttering apologies and explanations out loud. He stopped himself in shock. There it is then, he said to himself, the blasted thing has driven me insane. I'm talking to it like it was a pet cat or a neighbor come by to borrow a cup of sugar. I might as well..

The Man stopped in mid-sentence as he thought he'd heard the box say something. He leaned forward, nose to latch with the Chest and glared at it, eyes narrowed, as though daring it to speak up. He turned his head and placed his ear against the Chest, listening breathlessly.

I said DA, open the door please!

The Man nearly fell over in surprise as he realized his son was at the door, banging away, and had been for several moments. He took a deep breath, shook his head and marched to the door, and opened it as though he were going to be confronted with the constable come to report a complaint about his grass being overgrown (which it was). Instead he saw his son standing there, a worried look on his face.

Da, are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale.

The Man stared at his son for a moment, as though he were trying to remember what to say. Ah, uh, well, YES, I'm fine. Couldn't be more fit. He stared imperiously into his son's eyes Now, what is it? The Man felt a pang of guilt that the question had come out sounding like he was asking a solicitor why he'd come knocking at the door.

I...uh...forgot my scarf, his son replied as he slowly edged past and into the house. He glanced between his father, the box, and the tongs that were still in his father's left hand.

The Man loosened up. It's right there about your neck, you careless boy. Did you have too much of my home made huckleberry wine today? He glared at his son, as though he'd caught him getting into the wine at too young an age, and then laughed. He went to clap his son on the back, then realized he still had the tongs in his hand. He looked at them in surprise, then ceremoniously set them into the umbrella stand by the door.

The Man cleared his throat and looked expectantly at his son, knowing there was some other reason for his return visit so soon after leaving in a huff.

The Son looked at the Chest for a moment, then turned to his father. Da, I'm sorry I was so pushy with you regarding this, this..the Chest. It's not really my business what you do with it. I just don't want to see you, see you...

See me become some crazy, obsessed old man who threatens to shoot the newsboy?

The Man smiled at the irony of his interruption. He was obsessed with the Chest, had just contemplated the idea that he was crazy, and had been tempted to shoot the newsboy for years for his habit of tossing the paper so it landed behind the hedge next to the house where it was difficult to reach.

The two men, elder and junior, smiled warmly at each other. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then briefly embraced, clapping each other's backs, the way men do when they aren't sure how showing what they really feel deep down inside would be received by the other man.

The Man looked at the Chest, sighed, and then back at his son. I admit it has become an obsession, perhaps even more so than my obsession to be released from my Burden. The note that came with it says the solution lies inside the Chest, but I've never had the courage to open it. Perhaps one day... his words trailed off as he reached out and began absently rubbing his thumb along the latch. He caught himself and turned to his son.

Well, the scarf has been recovered, amends have been made. Do you want some huckleberry wine to take home with you?

The Son smiled as he held up the bottle his father had given him earlier that evening.

Ah yes, of course. Now see, there it is: I AM becoming a bit of an absent-minded curmudgeon, and so as your father I do expect you to allow me my eccentricities. He noticed his son's expression and realized he was talking to him as though he were an eight year old being told not to get into the cookie jar.

At that moment, the Man realized the man standing before him was someone different than the boy he saw, and that it was important to acknowledge that. He just wasn't sure how. He opened his mouth, but no adequate words formed. His son looked back, and expression of hope on his face, as though he knew his father's thoughts and the man-boy he was was waiting for the words he needed to hear.

Howwww...about some muffins to go along with the wine? I made far too many for me to hang on to. They'll go stale before I eat all of them? It was all the Man could manage to say.

Sure, Da. I'd love some muffins.

The Man scurried into the kitchen and in short order, returned with a basket filled with muffins covered by a linen cloth. The Son's melancholy was only slightly apparent as he took the basket of muffins from his father's hands. The Man clasped his son's hands as he handed over the basket, and wouldn't let go for just a moment.

Be sure to return the basket when you are done. And, oh yes, don't forget to return the bottle either, said the Man as his son walked toward the door and opened it.

The Son paused and turned in the doorway. I'll be back with both of them soon as I'm finished. Both men looked at each other for an endless couple of seconds, both men realizing something vitally important needed to be said, something for which years had been leading up to this very moment, as inevitably as a glacier inches toward the sea.

And then the moment passed.

The Son nodded as he turned and closed the door. The Man nodded as he turned and picked up the newspaper, and sat in his chair. He glanced at the Chest on the mantle as he opened the paper, and idly brushed a few leaves from the hedge off the page.

End of Part Three.

Native On. Native Off.

“When did you start being a Native American?”

“When did you stop being a Native American?”

These sound like odd questions, but they're honest ones. They're also realistic ones in modern American society in which “being Native” means many things to many different people. They deserve honest and realistic answers. I'll give mine, and along the way surely anger some people who would give different answers to these questions.

I was asked the first question some time ago by someone who was listening to me talk about my journey as a person reconnecting with my Mohawk heritage. That journey involves adoption, discovery of some facts about my birth parents, and a period of time during which I was led to believe I had to forgo my Native heritage. As such, the question is a valid one.

I was adopted by a mixed blood couple (Mother: Mohawk, Father: Cherokee) who spoke little of their Native American heritage, mainly out of concerns about racism. In fact, I was told to always put “White” or “Caucasian” on forms I filled out to avoid possible discrimination. My mother was a little more open about her Mohawk father, and she even had a photo of him with a frame that displayed a Native American motif. About all I heard about the Cherokee side was I had a couple of great aunts living on a reservation in Oklahoma.

Growing up, I didn't know I was adopted. I took pride in my Native American heritage. In first grade, the first day of school the teacher asked us about our various family histories and heritage. I happily declared my Indian roots.

That was the first time I'd ever heard the term “Prairie Nigger”.

I grew up with darker skin, hair and eyes than most of my friends. None of them seemed to make a point of it, at least not to my face. I occasionally uncovered the bias of some of my friends' parents. (“Mom said she won't allow me to go to a party with no redskins” was the response I got as to why a friend couldn't come to a birthday party.) Growing up, I was more or less oblivious to such things. It wasn't until adulthood, when I looked back on certain incidents in my life with a better understanding, that I realized I encountered a degree of latent prejudice without even realizing it.

After deciding to follow Christ at age 13, I was told by a mixed blood Cherokee pastor that Native traditions and belief in Jesus were incompatible. That's when I "stopped" being Native and tried very hard to fit into mainstream church thinking and attitudes. I wasn't very successful.

Years later I found out I was adopted, and so let my identity as a Native American fall by the wayside completely. It would be another two decades before I had access to adoption records that showed that my birth father was indeed Native American. Talk about a curve ball. (To do my birth mother honor, I will recognize her Lebanese, Maronite Catholic heritage as being important to me as well, but not in the way my Mohawk heritage is.)

This revelation came at a time when I had been questioning my walk of faith. Not my faith itself, but rather how much of it was truly what Jesus wanted for me, and how much of it was just following the status quo. An event called a Many Nations, One Voice gathering hosted at my church helped clarify things and answer many questions I had. In the most blatant act of Divine Provenance in my life, I received the paperwork confirming my Native American heritage the day before the MN1V gathering began.

The Many Nations, One Voice gatherings were intended to educate people about how Natives can maintain our traditions and still follow Christ in a way that is compatible with Biblical teaching. For me, the first sound of the Big Drum, and sight of the dancers in regalia, was a life changing epiphany. I heard and saw a way of life, the Good Red Road and the Jesus Way, that I knew in an instant was what I had been seeking my entire life. It's what I was meant to be.

That was when I started being Indian again. More specifically, that's when I started the journey of learning to be a Mohawk Jesus Lover. (According to the Great Law, since I was adopted by a Mohawk woman, I should consider myself Mohawk.) It's been a wonderful journey, realizing more each day that, in honesty, I never stopped being Indian, no matter what I thought of the matter.

I wish I could say this was the case with everyone, but it's not. One thing I noticed at that gathering was how many people from my church suddenly had Native Pride. People who had made no mention of Native heritage showed up wearing moccasins (cute how people would buy those comfy, fur lined Minnetonka bedroom slippers and think they were wearing traditional footwear) or little feathered roach clips in their hair. They would flock to the merchandise tables and buy chokers and CDs and flutes and books, talking about how their great grandmother was a Cherokee princess, or their grandfather was an Apache.

Some of them were utterly sincere, and, like me, discovered they didn't have to suppress their “Native Side”. Others, however, were Natives for the moment, getting caught up in the glamor and novelty of the event. After it was over, the moccasins and feathers went back into closets and drawers, along with the chokers and other bead work items. The CDs got some play time, the books were read, and that was about it.

As for me, I continued my walk along the Good Red Road, connecting with many Natives who helped educate, encourage and guide me along that road. Along the way I met as much resistance as I did encouragement, but I knew I was on the right Path, as my faith in Christ was becoming stronger and purer than it had ever been. As I shared my thoughts with various Native elders, I was told that the reason why I never seemed to quite fit in with the mainstream churches I attended was because I was Native, and saw the world and thought like a Native. There's a spiritual reality there that cannot be dismissed.

Eventually my walk led to departing that church, not under the best of terms. The leadership wanted to encourage my walk as a Mohawk Jesus Lover, but only so much. I simply reached a point where what they had to offer me in my journey left too many questions unanswered, and I told them so. The pastors didn't like hearing that.

After that MN1V, the church leadership did spend a few weeks talking about developing a Native outreach program,and partnering with the leadership of the nearby Meskwaki nation, but nothing ever came of it. Most of the interest in things Native disappeared after a few weeks. I was saddened to see friends who had embraced their Native heritage let it fall by the wayside in favor of the Next Thing that is always coming about in mainstream churches.

I have observed over the years that for so many people, their “Native-ness” doesn't last. They start being Native when it helps them feel special or significant, and they stop when that is no longer the case. Certain people start being Indian when it's entertaining to do so, or fulfills some longing they might have. Then they stop when being Native no longer offered anything in their lives of value.

We see that a lot, not just among churchgoers, but in American society as a whole. Celebrities brag about being Native. People rush to support Native causes. Respecting the earth is suddenly cool again and movies that portray indigenous people as heroes fighting against evil colonists are huge hits. Nearly everyone who comments on the current controversy regarding the Washington R*dskins and other Native mascots claim some sort of Native heritage, regardless of which side of the argument they favor.

Meanwhile, the “true” Indians continue dealing with the ups and downs of life in Indian Country. The people who never started being Native (because they always have been) still deal with unemployment, poverty, health issues, suicide rates, alcoholism and domestic and sexual abuse rates that are far higher than any other people group in the USA. They still have to deal with others appropriating sacred objects or traditions, of stereotypical representation in the media, and a government which has done little to fulfill treaty obligations, and in fact still has a pogrom in place intended to make the First Nations disappear either by assimilation or attrition.

They neither started nor stopped being Native. They just are. Therein lies the real answer to the questions above. A person either is or isn't Native: it can't be turned on and off like membership to Netflix. A person may be disconnected from his Native heritage, then reconnect, as happened with me, but in essence never stops being native. (Sadly, some never reconnect). That connection is permanent, lifelong and life affirming, because it is made by Creator at a spiritual level, not by some government issued card or entry on a list of names.

It has to be, because the reality of being Native in today's world involves struggles on both a personal and community level that most people really don't want to deal with. It's about far more than hanging dream catchers or posting memes on Facebook about respecting the earth or which feature Native American sayings. Being Native is about realizing that we are an endangered people, and keeping our identities alive takes quite a toll on us spiritually and emotionally.

As for me, I spent many troubled years trying to turn off being Native, and happy years of late coming to understand I never really turned it off, and never could if I tried.

The Chest, Part 2

Continued from June 25:

The Man let his hand rest upon the Chest for some time. He rubbed his thumb along the latch, noting that it was quite cold, as though the box had been sitting out for hours on a winter's day. As he rubbed the latch (why did it feel somehow...”rewarding” to do so?) he studied the grain of the wood itself as myriad thoughts about what might lay within the Chest flooded his mind. He had no idea how long he'd been standing there, rubbing the icy brass of the latch, when he realized with a start that the wood itself was warm to the touch. Quite warm in fact: much warmer than the contact from his hand could have made it.

He snatched his hand from the Chest with a start, looking at the tips of his thumb and fingers as though searching for an injury or stain. He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together and stepped away from the mantle upon which the Chest rested. It was darned peculiar, a box like that in which the metal was so cold to the touch while the wood was so warm. A slight chill went up his spine as he thought about the nefarious possibilities of the Chest. What if it were simply some cruel trap intended to do Godonlyknowswhat harm to him should he open it?

Well, whatever it is, it will be there tomorrow, thought the Man. He crossed over to his favorite chair and stiffly sat down, picked up the newspaper and went about fussing with it as though he were going to read it. As he glanced at each page, he kept peering over the top of the pages, half expecting it to open on its own at any moment. He wished it would do just that, saving him the burden of making the decision himself.

He spent as much time glancing at the box as he did reading the paper. He was torn between the giddy prospect that once it opened, some miraculous solution to the Burden would come flowing forth as light streaming from a candle in the darkness, and the concern that some evil pestilence might instead issue from it like noxious fumes from a garbage fire.

Eventually he realized it was time for bed. He neatly folded up the paper, then rose and looked about the room as though checking for something he had mislaid. He walked up to the Chest and leaned so close his nose was almost touching the latch. He squinted as he looked at the details of the metal and wood, and realized he was expecting to feel either cold or heat emanating from the unusual container, and felt neither. The Man frowned, stood up straight and hesitantly reached for the Chest. He pulled up just short of touching it. He turned smartly away, took a deep breath and marched into his room.

He climbed into bed thinking that the thoughts filling his mind about the Chest would keep him awake all night. Instead, he fell into a deep slumber almost the moment he laid his head down on his pillow.

He awoke with a start, with a sense of dread and alarm clenching at his gut. He sate up and looked in bewilderment around his bedroom, wondering why he didn't wake up in the leisurely, almost languid way that was his fashion. Something had startled him awake, but there was no sign of what it was in his room. He rose quickly and looked out the window, wondering if perhaps it had been thunder or some disturbance outside. The early morning sunlight filled his backyard garden. He opened the window and heard the usual, comforting symphony of birds and street noises that indicated all was normal. What had jolting him awake?

Then he remembered the Chest. He bolted toward the door, stopped, turned and grabbed his bathrobe and hurriedly put it on (as though the Chest were company come to visit unexpectedly) and dashed to the mantle. The Chest stood there, unassuming and harmless in the morning almost-darkness of the main room. 

The Man had an idea. 

He crossed to the bay window and slowly drew back the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight.

It wasn't quite the time when a ray of direct sunlight would reach the mantle, so the Chest remained in shadow. He stood watching a fleet of dust specks dancing in the beams of morning sun (I really must dust more often) as he waited for the nearest sunbeam to fall upon the chest. He suddenly realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out with a profound huff (exciting the dust motes into a tarantella of swirling activity) and shook his head.

What are you so afraid of?  he wondered out loud, and shaking his head like a schoolboy who finally came up with the answer to an easy problem he'd struggled with, he crossed over to the mantle. Just as he reached out to touch the Chest, a ray of sunlight fell across it. The Man heard a distinctly musical tone, a single note, as pure as any note an angelic trumpet could play, quiet as from a great distance, lasting but a moment so brief he wasn't sure he'd even heard it at all.

He froze, his hand mere inches from the Chest, and waited. Nothing else happened, and the sunbeams with their dancing dust motes continue their oblivious waltz across the room. The Man stood there, hand hovering above the Chest, head cocked as he listened for any more sounds that might occur.

Slowly. Very slowly. He laid his hand on the Chest.

Nothing happened. 

The metal latch was still icy cold, the wood still warm, but no more musical tones. He half hoped that the box would be vibrating, or some other indication that it was going to do more than just sit there, but he felt nothing. He found himself rubbing his thumb across the latch again, and stopped, determined to open the latch and see what was inside the mysterious Chest. Yet again, he refrained, shook his head and proceeded to the kitchen to fix breakfast.

This routine happened each morning in the days, weeks and months to come. He would wake up with a start, then go into the main room to observe what happened when he opened the curtains to allow the sun to shine directly on the Chest. Each day the sun struck it he would hear that single, achingly pure tone. (On cloudy days he'd hear the tone as soon as he parted the curtains). Each day he would place his hand upon the Chest, rub the latch, conjecture about what might be inside, then decide not to open it.

He'd become used to the whole sequence of events, though much less so to waking up startled. It took some uncustomary and imaginative introspection for him to realize what caused his jarring awakening. It was because of a dream he was having about the Chest, about what he discovered once he opened the Chest. He could never remember the dream, only that it startled him awake. The palpable sense of dread he felt every morning was enough to dissuade him from opening the Chest.

He spent many moments each day struggling with whether to open the chest or not. Minutes, perhaps even hours he stood at the mantle, rubbing the latch and trying to sort through thoughts he'd never had to sort through until the Chest arrived. This became his new daily routine.

It was not a routine he enjoyed. Waking up in the morning with a start, spending what he considered wasted time contemplating the Chest, caressing the latch, trying to decide whether to open it or not, was not his idea of a productive routine. At least the Burden was something he had dealt with all his life, and knew so many others had to deal with. This Chest thing: as far as he could tell his was a unique situation, and in its uniqueness made that much more challenging.

Why me? He would ask himself. Then he would glare at the Chest which, laying on the mantle in mocking silence, seemed to invite the obvious answer: Because you asked.

Eventually he'd become used to this routine in his life in the same way he'd come to tolerate, barely, the Burden. Weeks of this stretched into months, then months into years. All the while the Burden remained in place as it had always been, just as the Chest now found its set place within the Man's life.

Ah, the Burden. It seemed that since the arrival of the Chest, the Man had given much less thought to it than he once had. He still felt it, still saw it in the mirror, but he didn't dwell on it almost obsessively as he once did. One day he thought:

Perhaps that IS the solution? Perhaps the mere presence of the Chest is causing the Burden to shrink, and eventually it will disappear.

With that thought he stood up from his chair and crossed over to the mantle. As he laid his hand on the Chest and rubbed his thumb across the latch, he studied the reflection of the Burden in the mirror. He compared it to his memory of past inspections, looking for any sign it was diminishing. It was the same size it had been for as long as he could remember. The dull gray straps still dug into his shoulders and chest as though they were some horrid, mutated appendages he'd borne since birth.

The Man shifted his gaze from the reflection of the Burden to the Chest and back again. Back and forth, back and forth his eyes darted as he sorted through all the thoughts he'd had regarding the Burden and the Chest. He worked to build of his resolve, determined to finally put an end to years of this routing and open the damned Chest and get it over with once and for all.

Still, the Man feared what might lay within the Chest.

No, that wasn't it...

He feared what might not lay within the Chest. He feared that whatever it contained would not actually relieve him of the Burden. He feared having to deal with the crushing disappointment that the wondrous, mysterious, cursed Chest did not contain anything of use, that he would henceforth not only have to bear the Burden itself, but also the hopelessness that there was no release from it.

With a sigh, he removed his hand from the Chest, crossed to his chair, sat down, and picked up the paper. As he gave a cursory glance at the various headlines, the Man muttered to himself that he would put an end to this whole absurd routing by getting rid of the nuisance Chest. Yes, that would put his life back in order. He would toss the Chest out with the trash. Better yet, he would throw it into the fire.

Still, it was too warm for a fire today.

Tomorrow...

End Part 2 of “The Chest”

The Chest, Part 1.

The Man had sought all methods he could to find a solution to his dilemma. Prayer, incantations, magical potions, scientific inquiry, logical deduction: all of these he had pursued in earnest at various times, and still he was faced with his dilemma. The weight of it had almost become bearable over the years. He still felt the Burden, but it had become such a part of his life that the pain and weariness it caused were a natural state. He could no longer remember what it was like to not feel the weight of the Burden.

He looked in the mirror and sighed. He turned slightly to see the Burden squatting there on his upper back like an obscenely huge tick. The straps which criss-crossed his chest dug into the muscles so deeply, it almost looked as if they were growing into his body. They were so tight he couldn't even fit his pinky finger between them and his skin. He had tried many ways of cutting them, and only after injuring himself-with no damage to the straps-had he given up trying to cut the straps by normal methods.

He wasn't even sure what was inside of the strange pack that just seemed to appear on his back one day. He had an idea that it had been growing there for years, perhaps his entire life, and he had paid no attention to it until noticing the weight of it that day.

Burdens are like that, he mused. When we are young and thoughtless we don't pay much attention to the consequences of our actions. We go about seeking delight and joy and entertaining our senses, as though there is nary a cost to be paid for our frivolity. Only too late do we come to understand the true cost of our narcissism. If we ever do...

He though of his many friends who think they have no Burdens to bear. How wrong they are: the Man could see theirs as clearly as his own. Some of them were hunched over by the weight far more than he. How could they not know of the great bag of woe strapped to them, forcing them to walk about like some sort of goblin or less than human animal?

He could only conclude that they never looked in a mirror. No, that was preposterous: they had to look in the mirror to care for themselves. In fact, how could such self-absorbed people not look in the mirror at every chance? Perhaps the problem was that they were not looking into the right sort of mirror?

The Man wondered if his own mirror were special, blessed with powers that allowed him to see the burden that others couldn't. No, that wasn't it: no matter which mirror he looked into, he still saw the Burden.

Even passing by a shop window he saw it there, lurking on his back and gradually sapping the life out of him. As time had passed it grew noticeably larger, and he wondered if there would come a day when he would be no more and, upon looking into the mirror, all he saw was that great, hideous thing that was the Burden.

He realized it was not the mirror that mattered, but how a person looked into it. They had to want to see beyond their own reflection, based as it is on the illusion of Self, the idea that each “ME” is the Center of the Universe, and everything else revolves around “ME”. (The illogical notion that there are billions of Centers of the Universe simultaneously occupying the planet is never considered by the Narcissist. That's why narcissism exists, because people consider only what they want to see in the mirror, not what is actually there. Their indifference to reality is why they don't recognize their own Burdens, nor are they bothered by the weight. Some even seem to take pride in knowing the weight is there, but not realizing it is a Burden.)

So... he could see the Burden, not only on his own back, but on the backs of others. What set him apart? Why such a gift? What made him so special...the Man ceased that dangerous line of thinking. After years of seeing and feeling the weight of his own Burden, he'd recognized he was nothing special. He was just a Man carrying his own Burden,and all he had come to desire from life was to be free of it. To think too much of himself would simply make the Burden grow even faster, of that he was certain.

Not that he didn't feel compassion for others who bore their own Burdens, (whether aware of them or not). He found that the more he tried to deal with his own burden, the stronger his desire to help others with theirs grew within his heart. He had long ago decided that, should he find the Key to getting rid of his Burden, he would gladly and freely share it with others.

He knew there were others who had come to see their own Burdens. He knew they could see his as well. It seemed that once a person was able to see his own Burden, all Burdens became visible to him. The Man eventually recognized that all who are able to see Burdens shared the same look in their eyes, a sort of desperate hope for a solution combined with a humble resignation to the weight of the Burden, and the occasional fire of determination to be rid of it one way or another.

He had even seen some people without any Burdens clinging to their backs. At first he thought it was simply because he lacked the ability to see them. He realized after a time that these people also walked tall and proud and free and full of joy, and not as with some of the worst Narcissists, who were that way because of total denial of their own and any other Burdens in the world. No, these people were genuinely free of any Burden, and walked as human beings were meant to walk, in total freedom, able to look at themselves in the mirror with total integrity and acceptance of their true selves.

The more he saw such People, the more he wanted that freedom for himself.

So it was that a Day came when there was a knock on the door of his home. It was just a single, loud rap that oddly sent echoes reverberating through his small house for a second or too (as though he was standing in a great hall, rather than a living room with scarcely enough room for a sofa and the easy chair he was sitting in, reading a book.) He hadn't had a visitor for ages, so he was at first hesitant to get up and answer the door.

He waited for a second knock, and, when none came after nearly a minute, he sprang out of his chair and rushed to the door, hoping he might catch Whoeveritwas if he were walking away.

He opened the door to find no one there. He cautiously leaned out a bit to look to each side of the doorway to see if someone were hiding there, but all he saw was the windows and shrubbery beneath them. He took a step forward, intending to walk to the gate of his front yard to look up the street to see if anyone was heading away from his house. That's when he nearly tripped over the Package.

It was about the size of a loaf of bread and wrapped in plain brown paper. There was no address on it, so he guessed it hadn't been delivered by the usual Post. The only writing on it was in a simple, yet elegant script:

Per Your Request.

The Man stared down at the Package for a moment, perplexed. Then he furtively glanced up and down the street, as though picking up a Package at his own front door were some sort of suspicious activity. Taking a deep breath and a sigh, he quickly picked up the Package and darted back inside.

He sat down on the sofa and placed the Package on the low table before him. He stared at it for some time, wondering who it was from and asking himself many questions regarding what could be in it and the peculiar way in which it was delivered. He considered for a moment that it might be some sort of bomb or trap or something entirely too dangerous to open. He leaned over and gave it a listen, and heard nothing. He tentatively picked it up and and shook it: he heard and felt a very slight bump from within, but that was it.

Well, there's nothing else to it he thought, then he quickly tore at the wrappings like he was once again a child opening the biggest present on his birthday. What was revealed was an old looking, nondescript chest. It was of greyish colored wood, that looked like it had once been red oak or cherry. It was constructed very much like his mother's jewelry chest, a simple wooden box with a hinge lid and single hasp in front. There was a note attached to the top, written in a much less eloquent (even messy) script. It read:

The Answer to Your Inquiry Lies Within.

There was no signature, no initials, nothing to identify who wrote the note and, presumably, who sent him the Chest.

The Man stared at the Chest, many thoughts flooding his mind, for a very long time. So long that he was startled when he realize the sun had gone down and it was past his dinnertime. He hadn't touched the Chest the entire time, so he finally picked it up, quite gingerly, and rotated it in his hands to examine it. He found no other markings to give any indication of who the Chest was from or what it contained.

He stood up and walked over to the mantle, placing the chest just below the mirror on the wall above it. He looked in the mirror, shaking his head as he saw the unavoidable Burden, then looked at the Chest.

The only “inquiry” I have made for years is how to remove the Burden. Could it be that whatever is in this Chest will allow me to do just that? The Man's heart began to pound and his breath quicken at the prospect that the Chest contained some sort of blessed, magical thing that would at long last relieve him of the Burden.

He realized that he was grinding his teeth in thought, painfully so, and took a step back from the chest. He rubbed his face and again looked into the mirror. Shaking his head, he reached for the Chest, placing his thumb below the hasp.

End Part 1 of “The Chest”

"We're all the same..."

Dear Well Meaning Friend,

I know you are completely sincere when you try to defuse discussions about race, ethnicity, religion and prejudice by saying, “we are all just the same. Why can't we just get along?”. I do have to point out, however, that we are not the same, at least not when it comes to how our various cultures, religions, and the color of our skin, affects our world view and behavior.

Sure, we all have the same basic wants and needs: food, air, water, shelter, the desire to love and be loved, to be free, to be respected and appreciated. We all bleed the same color blood when cut. For the most part, we all are conceived, born, age and die in the same ways. That's because biologically, we are all the same species. Yet, to reduce our cultural diversity to biological uniformity is a grave error in perception which actually fosters problems rather than offers solutions.

I'll explain what I mean from the perspective of a Native American, specifically from a Mohawk perspective. Please understand, friend, that I am not offering this explanation as a way of putting you down or creating conflict or trying to make myself appear superior to others. (In fact, I will touch on the subject of superiority and inferiority later on.) I'm doing this because, as I noted above, what seems like a good approach to racial, ethnic and religious differences actually isn't.

Let me start with a foundational difference within my traditional, Mohawk culture.  My Mohawk ancestors lived in a culture that was Matriarchal. Clan Mothers had the ultimate authority. Clan membership was passed through the mother. Property rights were held by the women. Our male sechems (chiefs) were chosen by the Clan Mothers, who held the right to veto the sechems' decisions and if necessary, remove an unsatisfactory one from office.

Our very language communicates the idea that women are fully equal to men, and in a certain way "superior", because they bear the gift of creating and nurturing life, whereas men can only manipulate that which is already created. So profound was our view that women possess great spiritual, creative power that it was they who oversaw the cultivating of our crops. We never had a need for “Women's Lib” or Feminism because we never placed women as being beneath men in any way.

This fact alone tells you how different the Mohawk were, and are, from Euro-American culture. Europeans, and then Americans, have always had a Patriarchal society, which treated women as second class citizens for centuries. They were the property of their husbands, viewed as tools for sexual gratification and child bearing. For centuries they were not allowed the same education as men, because it was expected that they would be satisfied being wives and mothers. In the U.S. women were not even allowed to vote until 1920, and then it took a Constitutional Amendment because the foundational document of the United States did not originally allow women the same rights as men!

So, caring friend, your very idea of how women should be treated is going to be fundamentally different from mine and my traditionalist Mohawk relations. This applies to some extent to all First Nations, even those which have a Patriarchal, rather than Matriarchal, tradition.

Many other aspects of Mohawk culture were, and are, different from your own. Our spiritual tradition, as with other First Nations, holds that nearly everything in Creation is to be considered sacred. We view ourselves as spiritual beings dwelling, temporarily, in a physical world that is not truly separated from the spiritual realm. Most of your religions tend to teach that we are physical beings seeking spiritual experiences. We see Creation as existing as one great circle. 

Your culture tends to impose a dualist view, in which there is the World of Flesh and the World of Spirit. It becomes very black and white for you, because the World of Flesh is inherently evil but the World of Spirit is inherently good. We don't see it that way, because we don't view Creation in terms of either/or, black and white. It's a multicolored, holistic Creation in which both sides of everything are needed, they coexist in order to maintain balance.

We have many items we consider sacred: drums, rattles, flutes, pipes, eagle feather fans and other feather items. All of these are treated with great respect and according to certain protocols. Your religions tend to say that this is a form of idolatry, that no “thing” is needed to commune with Creator, only prayer and faith. With that we will agree: our sacred items are used to demonstrate our faithfulness in both their making and in their use.

We don't try to convert others to our religions. We view that as something between each person and Creator. We, as Mohawk, see no threat or are not concerned that the Navajo or Lakota or Tlingit have a different spiritual tradition than our own. The same Creator set before them traditions that are different from ours. Different, but not better.

In your culture, there is constant argument about which religion is the right one. Yes, you have many who feel that “all religions lead to God”. But you have many more who argue constantly that their own religion is the only right one. This even occurs within the same belief, such as the thousands of Christian denominations or the various sects of Islam. This constant conflict of spiritual ways is one reason why we have been so skeptical of missionaries trying to convert us to their “true path”.

The most telling difference in our spiritual views is this: the First Nations views our relationship with Creator in terms of where we dwell, that we live and die in the place we believe Creator placed us. Your religions tend to focus on the historical events in which you believe Creator manifested Himself as a demonstration of His love. To us, our land, and the provision it offers, proves His love for us. For your religion, it is His intervention in events throughout history. Therein lies the major difference in our view of land.

We view land not as something we own, but as something of which we are a part. The land “owns” us. All of us. Equally. As a community. It is not ours to sell, but rather to manage as stewards. This includes offering a place for others to dwell in peace, if they so desire and are trustworthy. Taking us from our land is disruptive to us not only physically, but spiritually. It is the same for us as locking up all the churches and confiscating all the Bibles would be for Christians.

You view land as a commodity, something that can be bought and sold. It is used to make a profit: indeed your culture views all of Creation as something which can be exploited for profit. It is normal for you to think you can own more than you need: more land, more possessions, more money, more power. Your culture even values people not for who they are, but for how much they have. Those who have the most are allowed to exploit those who have little, and it's called “good business”. Some of your culture even blame the poor for being poor!

These seems to be because in your culture, you are always looking for enemies, for reasons to fight. Anyone who doesn't agree with you is automatically a potential enemy. Of course, not all of you are this way, but it is so deeply ingrained in your culture that you cannot escape it's influence. Your culture applauds competitiveness and the arrogance that goes along with it. Our culture does have competitive games, but in the end we applaud those who cooperate more than those who contend with others. That is because ultimately, our lives are richer, and even depended upon, a sense that we are all family.

Our view that we are all related leads us to have a very different view of private possessions. Many of our Nations held all but the most basic items such as clothing or weapons in common. It was not unusual for someone to simply pick up an item that was not in use and make use of it for a time, even if that item “belonged” to someone else. The “owner” always knew he could get it back when he needed to use it.

We celebrate birthdays not by heaping presents upon the person, but by that person and her family giving away what they could to their family, friends, and members of the community. Our chiefs were often the poorest people in our communities materially, because they tended to give away what they had to those in need.

Our spiritual elders and our healers dare not demand any sort of fee for their services. Such things as the ability to heal are a gift from Creator, and so should be given freely to the community. They didn't fret about this, because the community made sure such vital members as healers and those with spiritual wisdom were provided for.

So it is we had a very different views on material possessions and wealth. In fact, in many of our Nations, a person's wealth was counted by how many relations he had given something to, by how she had enriched their lives, by how much better off the community was for his or her presence and efforts.

By contrast, your culture is very much about making a profit off of even the most sacred of giftings. Your religious leaders and healers can be some of the wealthiest people around. You even find it acceptable to withhold care for the sick or injured if they don't have the money to pay for care.

Overall, my Mohawk ancestors would be called “Socialists” by those of your current culture. The implication by some who did so would be to claim that we were inferior to “Capitalists”.

Which brings up what I mentioned above about being superior or inferior. Euro-American culture is driven by the desire to conquer, to improve, to own more, make more, be more than everyone else. There are things that are admirable about this desire, such as it leading to improvements in technology. Better food, clothing, shelter, medicine, tools and machines have come as a result of the drive to improve that is at the heart of Euro-American culture. If only you tempered that drive with greater respect for Creation, and people, so that less harm was done to the earth and to others in your pursuit of “bigger, better, faster, stronger”.

By contrast, our cultures took such things very slowly. Because we emphasize our relationships with Creator, Creation and other people over accomplishment, we would be reticent to make “improvements” that might be too disruptive. We were content to live at a level of harmony with the earth and each other that didn't drive us to force changes in our lives.

I will grant that this is because we were blessed to have a vast land available to us. There was not a lot of pressure on our resources. Between our spiritual traditions, our views of community and the simple, Eden-like environment in which we lived, there as not the “Mother of Invention” (necessity) pressing us to develop technology as was the case with Europeans.

Europe had a great deal of people in a relatively small area. Your feudalism meant that nobles owned a disproportionately large amount of land compared to the commoners. You divided yourself into nations based on bloodlines and who was supposedly given divine mandate to be king. It is no wonder that you developed such a competitive world view and were forced to always find ways to make the most of what you had, and to defeat your enemies.

Such a crucible of conflict has bred a deep attitude of competitiveness over the centuries. This attitude naturally leads to assumptions of what is inferior vs what is superior. Superior is what will win: inferior is what will lose. The result is that Euro-American culture indoctrinates individuals into the attitude that if anyone questions your status quo, they are attempting to prove their own status quo to be superior to yours. After all, that is what you would do, right? There is little room for the idea that diversity is not only not a threat to the status quo, but can actually enhance people's lives.

The Europeans came to Turtle Island, looked upon how the First Nations lives, and immediately declared us to be primitive savages. Because our political, economic and social structures were different from the Europeans (though no less sophisticated), we were judged to be simplistic in our lives. Our less developed technology regarding metallurgy, construction, medicine etc (though our agricultural wisdom was greater than yours) led the early colonists to deem us as inherently inferior to themselves. Their religion even led some of them to classify us as less than human.

As a result, for some Europeans found it quite easy to enslave and murder us in the Name of God. For others it was a Manifest Destiny to push us off our lands and force us to adopt their culture, language, religion and form of government. The First Nations suffered five centuries of such treatment. Millions were killed or died from disease and deprivation. We have been driven off our traditional, sacred lands. Our languages have almost disappeared. Our spiritual traditions have been suppressed, even outlawed. Our form of government has been replaced. We have, as a people group, suffered the greatest disruption in human history.

People cannot endure such things without there being profound changes. Scientific research has even uncovered evidence that such catastrophic events cause changes in the DNA that is passed on to children and grandchildren. The reality is that the First Nations (along with many other minorities) have suffered events that still deeply affect us today, and will continue to affect our people for generations to come. We cannot just easily dismiss the impact of the past upon the present, and the future.

Despite modern efforts to improve things minorities still suffer from the differences between the majority, privileged group and ourselves. We see the same events and statistics, but because of our differing world views, interpret and process them differently. At times we simply don't come to the same conclusion as you do regarding what to make of a given event or statistic. It is our view, not yours, that we are expressing.

Which brings up the hardest part of this letter, friend. 

Consider this: maybe, when you try to defuse arguments about race, ethnicity, religion and prejudice by saying, “we are all just the same. Why can't we just get along?” what you are really saying is “You should all act like I do, and be like I am, and view the world as I view the world. Then we can all get along because we are all pretty much the same.” That is how we, as minorities, can interpret such a statement. Coming from someone who embraces the majority culture, (a culture that committed offenses against minorities) we see a not too dissimilar attitude from that which contributed to the worst aspects of colonization: slavery, genocide, betrayal and theft.

If we were only just like you, there would be no conflict. 

You see, my friend, the very fact that we are members of a minority (different) culture, race, ethnic group or religion means we are indeed different from members of your culture in many profound ways. Please accept that not as a threat, but as an opportunity to embrace and celebrate how each of our cultures can enrich the entire world and in so doing, each other's cultures.

You want to defuse conflict not by changing yourself and your culture's view of diversity, but by attempting to make the diversity disappear. The only way to do that is to get us, those who are different, to disappear as well, either by assimilation or annihilation.

It's that attitude, even more than any words or actions, that causes us concern.